


Ar ôl Nadolig daw'r Gwanwyn

by Rhedyn



Series: Cymru, Lloegr, a Rhydychen [2]
Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Christmas, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhedyn/pseuds/Rhedyn
Summary: The Lovely Land was meant to be standalone, but Ein and Saint-George stayed in my head, and the resulting sequel wanted to be a Christmas story.





	Ar ôl Nadolig daw'r Gwanwyn

**Author's Note:**

> Yn Saesneg, the title is _After Christmas comes the Spring_.

They left a telegram with Morton to be sent ahead, carefully written out by Ein yn Gymraeg, so when at last the train pulled into Dolgellau station, Ein's brother was there waiting, leaning on the farm truck, hands shoved deep in pockets against the December chill.

"Wyn!" Ein dropped his bags and they hugged, thumping each other on the back in reunion. "Dyweda helo i Geri," and he put an arm around Saint-George, pulling him forward, and the young man obediently said hello, and put out a hand in shy welcome.

Packed weary into the truck cab, bags in back, they took the narrow road up and into the hills, winding onto rougher tracks until the stone farmhouse came into view, and Wyn left them in the yard with a smile and nod, driving off to return the truck, Ein no longer knew where.

Saint-George was doing his best to keep a brave face, Ein could see, but the past days had been near unthinkable and he could not be blamed for the waver in his voice. "All Welsh, then?"

"My mother has English, cariad, though it's not often she has need to use it. It will be all right, never fear, and you'll pick it up faster than you think. Come, let's go in to meet her, and get warm."

 

* * *

 

Mair ferch Seren was not easy to surprise. They were greeted and welcomed and sat at the scrubbed oak table in her kitchen, with earthenware mugs of hot milky tea, and bara brith, butter and cheese and apples laid out, before she leaned her hands on the table and looked at her son in enquiry.

Meeting her look across the food, Ein discarded a hundred ways to begin, and instead reached for Saint-George's hand beside him, brought it tense yet unresisting to his lips, and, in answer to his mother, kissed it.

Mair's eyes widened, and Ein could see her understand, and her mind moving quickly to map the path ahead.  She pulled out a chair and sat, reaching for her own mug of tea, and regarded them both. "Well, fy mab, perhaps you had better tell me what I need to know."  
  
Ein gave her the practical facts of the situation:   he was home to stay, finished now with Oxford, and Saint-George with him.  Saint-George was to be simply Geri, and no need for any to know more, that would be safest.  He knew Mair would require more of him, but she would let it wait until they were settled, and until she could speak to him alone.  
  
Now she nodded once, and said, "You'll take your old room for tonight, and after that, dy bwthyn?  It's ready enough, needs a clean out and stocking up, but easier for Geri I should think, not to have the family all at once, and the language."  
  
It was a sensible suggestion, the farm cottage up the mountain track, set aside and awaiting him for all his time at Oxford, and Ein agreed with relief.  They ate their food and Mair told them bits of this and that about family and village and farm.  Saint-George was listening but quiet, clearly all but done in, and when they had finished eating Ein took him upstairs and got them into his old bed, which was not too big but held them well enough.

 

* * *

 

The stone cottage was solid but dusty.  Ein showed Saint-George how to brush it all down, starting at the rafters, and went back and forth himself on the track, carrying supplies, linens and his mother's extra kitchen things for loan, and food.  Their wood store was already full, stocked as overflow from windfalls, and Ein counted himself lucky knowing he would be sore as it was, softened from student life.  
  
Their next days passed in relative quiet.  Ein's sisters and cousins called by in ones and twos, greeting them and stopping only briefly, asking no questions, though their desire to do so was apparent.  It was clear they had firm direction from Mair, and Ein was grateful once again.  Saint-George remained subdued, though willing enough to begin with Welsh, practicing the first simple phrases throughout their day, and even smiling to catalogue his list of endearments already known.  It was clear that his wounds might be bound but were yet unhealed, and Ein watched him and held him close at night with helpless concern.  
  
Ein wrote to his tutor at Oxford, withdrawing with courteous apologies, and ended asking if, as a kindness, the scouts might pack up and post his belongings from his room.  As he wrote it came clear to him that he could not ask the same for Saint-George;  he had no obvious claim and, if he were to try, it would lay a trail that they did not want found.    
  
When asked, Saint-George sighed and said, "It's no matter.  There was nothing important, and I expect my mother has moved immediately upon it, in any case."  
  
But his face was bleak, and when Ein offered, "I could go, instead, and see if I might..." the clear panic in Saint-George's expression halted him immediately, and he hurried to reassure.  "No, cariad, I won't leave you, that was wrong-headed of me, I'm sorry."  Saint-George came to him and they embraced, Ein rubbing slow circles on Saint-George's back to comfort.  
  
Saint-George spoke softly into Ein's neck, and he had to pull back gently to catch the words, "...but still useless, it seems, after all..." and he held Saint-George tight, shaking him a little bit, for emphasis.  
  
"Jerry, you are so brave, I think you are the bravest I have ever known, do you see?"  His own voice broke a little then, wanting so much for his words to ring true.  "You are never useless, and I love you, and it is yet only a few days for you.  You will find your way, I know it."    
  
Saint-George said nothing more, but laid his head on Ein's shoulder, and Ein ran his fingers through pale hair, and loved, and hoped.  

 

* * *

 

Wyn came rattling up the track in the farm truck, with parcels from the post office in town.  There seemed to be a few more of them than Ein was expecting, but perhaps the scouts had been generous in their packing.  He opened them one by one, sorting out his belongings, and then opened the next and paused, to see an envelope atop brown paper, addressed only with "Jerry", in a neat hand.  
  
He called to Saint-George, and when he came, curious, gave him the envelope and watched him, closely, as he opened and read.  Ein saw his face soften with a deep gratitude and relief, and took the note to read with eager interest when Saint-George passed it to him.

 

 

_11th December 1935_

_Dear Jerry,_  
  
_We hope this finds you well, and together with those you love at Christmas.  You are very much missed.  I have enclosed some banknotes, though I have faith that you are well provided for.  I thought to send more, but Bunter, wise in counsel, made suggestion that an alternate currency is, under some circumstances, of more use._  
  
_With great affection always,_  
  
_P(+H)_  
  
_P.S.  My mother also sends her love, which was too large to fit in this box._

 

Ein looked up from the note and saw that Saint-George's face was truly wet with tears, and moved to hold him.  Saint-George's breath was coming ragged, but a tension in him had eased, and Ein could feel that this was healing.  They stood together until Saint-George steadied, and lifting his head, asked, "But then what's in the box?"  
  
They moved to look, and Saint-George reached to pull the paper aside, and gold gleamed up at them, coins piled upon coins, the whole box full.  They were still in surprise, looking at each other, questioning, and then Saint-George picked up a coin and peeled away the gilt, showing the deep brown chocolate beneath, and they both burst into laughter.

 

* * *

 

The longest night came and passed, and they lay in bed late and drowsing. The treasure they had received hung safe in a sack, suspended from the rafters in a cold room, where neither heat nor mice would reach it.

After a time Ein stirred, and murmured into Saint-George's hair, "I should build up the fire, cariad."  
  
Saint-George did not remove his weight from where he lay, draped half across Ein's chest.  Instead Ein felt sleepy words against his neck, "Don't go, I'll see to it."  
  
"Will you?"  
  
A soft affirmative noise was his answer, followed by warm wet tongue in the hollow of his throat, and a brief nip of teeth.  "I must see if I can find some kindling," and the old mischief came aglow in Saint-George's voice, and his mouth moved down Ein's collarbone, and shoulder, and continued on, leaving each place burning bright.  Ein clung to his love's shoulders, and let his own head fall back, and the blaze took them up together in a shower of sparks.

 

* * *

 

On Christmas morning they went together down the track to Mair's farmhouse, wrapped in coats and scarves, and the sack slung over Saint-George's shoulder.

Inside the house was full to brim with family, adults in chairs ringing the sitting room and children playing in the center. The kitchen table was heaped with food and drink. Mair came to greet them both with hugs, and Saint-George took out a handful of his coin and presented it to her, smiling. Her brows shot up and she received the gift in her cupped hands, weighing it, and began laughing. The children heard and crowded in to see, and Saint-George distributed more bounty, gold for each small and eager hand.

They went around to each adult in turn then, brother and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. Saint-George gave coins to each, and Ein spoke in slow and simple words, letting Saint-George follow as he could, and helping with English when there was need.

The coins were received with pleasure, and at the end of their circuit, they came to Mair's brother Tomos, who accepted the gift with a well-scrubbed but nonetheless much stained hand, ingrained with black in the creases of his knuckles and around each nail bed.  Ein smiled to see it, and asked, "Oes gennych chi modur newydd, Ewythr?"  
  
"Am byth a bob amser," his uncle smiled back, and then looking at Saint-George, spoke carefully, "A new motor, yes, always."  
  
Ein saw that Saint-George was looking back intently, brows drawn together in thought, and then he gathered himself and tried, "Ga i... os gweli di'n dda, ga i mynd i weld?"  Tomos clapped him on the shoulder, nodding, and then leaning back, dug into a pocket, finding a much creased and folded paper, which he offered to Saint-George.  
  
Unfolded, it revealed itself to be an English advertisement for a farm machine, Fordson Model N from Dagenham works, inked in bright blue and red.  Saint-George studied it carefully, then looked back at Tomos, questioning.  Ein watched, ready to help, but Tomos had enough words to manage this.    
  
"Want come to see?"  And then to Ein, "Ddydd Mercher?"  
  
"Yes!  Do, diolch, I do."  Saint-George's face was pure sunlight.  

 

* * *

 

 

_5th February 1936_

_My Lord,_  
  
_I write in gratitude for your most thoughtful aid to myself and to my loved ones.  I understand you have a fondness for motorcar excursions, and would like to recommend to you Machynlleth weekly market as a destination that you might enjoy.  The road from Shrewsbury is well surfaced, the inns in the town are hospitable, and the 21st of March is expected to be exceptionally pleasant.  The view from the central clock as it strikes twelve is especially to be noted._  
  
_Yours faithfully,_  
  
_Einion Danfers_

 

* * *

 

They stood beneath the clock tower in the early spring air, looking down each street among the market stalls.  Harriet saw a gleam of cornsilk appear from behind a striped awning, and looking to Peter saw that he had seen them too.  Saint-George's hair was a bit longer, and not so precisely cut, and she could see that his hand on Ein's shoulder was roughened and marked with black, no longer quite the image of Peter's, and that he wore rough work clothes in grey and brown, matching Ein beside him.  When he saw them waiting at the clock, his smile flashed bright, and with pleasure Harriet saw that its hectic edge was softened now, transmuted, steadied, real.

 


End file.
